


Capillary

by eloquated



Series: Anatomy [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Grief/Mourning, M/M, Post-The Final Problem, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-16
Updated: 2018-11-21
Packaged: 2019-08-24 12:47:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,950
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16640402
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eloquated/pseuds/eloquated
Summary: Capillary (n.):any of the fine branching blood vessels that form a network between the arterioles and venules.Something was wrong.  That, they had known.  After Sherrinford, nothing in his life could ever be the same.But this was more wrong than any of them had realized.(follows the events ofMarrow.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sherlock221Bismymuse](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherlock221Bismymuse/gifts).



> Hello my darling lovelies! I'm sorry it's taken me so long to get this bit up, but you know how real life can be. No respect for creativity.
> 
> This is dedicated to the wonderful sherlock221Bismymuse, for inspiring me to actually get this chapter done!
> 
> Also, a bit of shameless self promotion? If you're a Holmescest fan, or just want to check out some of the amazing rare pairs in the Sherlock fandom, you should swing my blog sherlockrarepairs.tumblr.com. We have prompts and headcanons and all sorts of lovely things!
> 
> But promotion aside, onto the chapter!

There were things careening violently across the room, and skittering wildly on the filthy floor where they struck.  

From the doorway, Molly could see the devastation that Sherlock had wrought on his bedroom; there was scattered debris shoved into the corners, and the bed had been thrown on its’ side, the mattress succumbing to gravity and sliding to the floor.  In his robe and a pair of stained pajama pants, Sherlock was tearing his room to pieces. 

Not even the bookshelf had survived the devastation, and dog eared textbooks littered the floor like academic landmines.  

“Sherlock…?”  Molly’s voice sounded thin and uncertain even in her own ears, drowned out beneath the sharp crack of a Chemistry reference slamming to the ground beside a tangled blanket, three mismatched socks and, more alarmingly, the glittering reflection of shattered glass.

Something was wrong.  That, they had known. After Sherrinford, nothing in his life could ever be the same.

But this was more wrong than any of them had realized.

She’d worried when he’d sent Greg and John away, slamming the door behind their well-meaning backs.  But who had given them, any of them, the right to decide how Sherlock Holmes should grieve for his brother?  

It wasn’t their place, as much as they wished they could take away some measure of his pain -- and every attempt to reach out had been met by the dull drone of a ringing phone, and the reminder than his voicemail was full.

“Sherlock, please, come on-- step back, you’ve got bare feet and--”  

She’d come when Mrs. Hudson had called for help, but Sherlock scarcely seemed to register her presence.  His low baritone mutter shot through by his frantic deconstruction, each shuffling step unaware? Uncaring? Of the shrapnel under his feet.  

Even from the door, Molly could see the greasy, matted curls and the specks of blood smeared across red, raw knuckled hands.  

Maybe she couldn’t ease his pain, but she could damn well make sure he didn’t tear himself to pieces.  It was the least, the  _ very, very _ least she could do for them.  For him, and for Mycroft. Molly’s feet felt like lead as she pushed away from the door frame, bits of broken glass and plaster-- she hoped it was plaster-- crunching under the soles of her shoes.

“No,  _ damn you _ , let me go!  I have to find it!”  Sherlock thrashed as Molly stepped through the minefield and took his arm.  His eyes had always been so bright, but now they were consumed with the darkness of his pupil, and rimmed in bloodshot red.  Muscles bulged under her fingers, and Molly was clenched with the sick feeling of deja vu.

They’d done this before, and Molly wanted to check his arms.  Wanted to see for herself if he’d… Again.

She held on as tightly as she could, fingers cramping as they twisted into his sleeve.  “And I’ll help you, I promise! Just .. let’s get you some shoes first. Or your slippers.  You don’t want to be treading on glass.” It was the first thing that came to her mind, the words tumbling across her lips too quickly.  They sounded pathetic and mundane; but after a moment, the slashing, pinwheeling of his arms slowed. 

If she was fast enough, she had to believe, she could stop him from twisting away and returning to his obsessive demolition. 

The seconds seemed to trickle by endlessly, until Sherlock finally looked down at her-- and she could see the recognition in his cloudy gaze.  “Molly?”

“Yes, Molly, that’s right.. Now please, just a few steps, and careful now…  That’s right-- careful, there’s a broken mug, there by that copy of Culpepper’s…”  By the time they’d cleared the debris field, Molly slowly became aware of the way her heart was ratched in her chest, each nauseating beat thudding against the inside of her ribs.

The flat outside wasn’t much better than the bedroom.  A disaster of half finished renovations and neglect, and with a shudder, Molly tried not to think about him rattling around here alone.   _ Alone _ .

They should have pushed. Should have done something more.  Anything more.

“What were you looking for?”  Settling Sherlock on the couch was easier than she’d expected, his weight rocked back on his heels to avoid the prickle of tiny slivers in his feet.  Even the couch was covered in workman’s dust, but Molly found a mostly clean towel to drape over the worst of the mess. It didn’t help much, but she didn’t want to venture away to find something better.  Just in case.

Sherlock didn’t even seem to notice; and with his robe wrapped tight around him, he dropped onto the couch with the protesting wheeze of old leather.  “Treasure, my.. My treasure. It’s in there somewhere, I have to find it.” 

Molly grabbed his arm before he could pull away, caught in the gravitational pull of his own grieving madness again.  “Right, and I said I’d help you. But first, we have to get you cleaned up. Just  _ sit here _ , and I’m going to get your first aid kit.  It’s still in the kitchen, yeah?” He nodded, and his lanky frame curled a little tighter onto the sofa.

He looked like a child, Molly realized as she padded into the kitchen.  Not for the first time, she was grateful that John had had the good sense to leave a stock of basic first aid bits and pieces when he’d moved out; God knew Sherlock would never think to do it himself.

“It was Grandfather’s.  Then Mycie’s, but it’s my treasure, now…”  Came the soft reply, muffled behind the once rich sleeve of his robe.  He didn’t even complain when Molly tucked his feet into her lap, so she could begin tweezing the splinters free.  “I needed treasure, I was a pirate.”

He wasn’t talking to her, not really, but he’d pushed everyone else away.  .

And with the best intentions, they’d let him. 

But she’d promised Mycroft she’d keep him safe.

Beyond the crumbling walls of 221B, Molly could hear the drone of the city.  It was alive, ticking away, as cities do, without much care or the suffering of one man.  Eight million people, all going about their lives, oblivious.

“What kind of a treasure, Sherlock?  If you tell me what it looks like, I’ll help you.”

Huddled on the couch, with his matted hair curling against the padded arm, Sherlock picked at the scattered scabs on his knuckles; stiff where the blood had started to dry. In the half light he heaved a sigh that sent up eddies of fine white dust, and didn’t look at Molly while she worked.

“Cufflinks.  He inherited them from our Grandfather.  All sorts of them.. Bright and shiny in their box after Mummy had them cleaned. But they looked like treasure to me.. And sometimes, Mycroft would let me take a few.  A real pirate needed treasure.” Sherlock’s voice broke, fracturing along the syllable lines.

“He understood that.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey everyone, I'm sorry this chapter took a little longer to get finished, but Sherlock just wasn't that interested in cooperating (surprise surprise!)
> 
> Still, hopefully it was worth the wait!

How could he-- should he?-- ever explain what Mycroft had been to him?  Where were the words to define and quantify the bloody void in his life where his brother had always been.  The niche that had been made for him at birth, because Sherlock had never known what it was to be alone like that.

Mycroft had always been there.  And even when his fractious, fitful pride had refused to let Sherlock reach out to him; even when the drugs had strained the bonds between them to the fraying point -- Sherlock had always known he was there.  Just at the end of his fingers, if only he would reach out. 

In the quiet of the derelict flat, Sherlock sprawled on his stomach across the filthy couch, his long limbs tangled in his robe.  Elegant lengths of deep blue silk now stained with sweat, and the cuffs fouled with cast-off specks of bile. Sometimes, the knowledge that he was alone-- that he had been  _ left _ \-- was sickening.  The emotion clawing up the back of his throat and burning, escaping through the cracks in his decimated self control.

Sometimes he cried.  

The old, steady walls of his life crumbling in wracking sobs that stripped his throat and cramped his guts; they left him gasping for air, and never seemed to stop.  It had been days since Mycroft’s death, and Sherlock couldn’t seem to bleed away the pain. 

The tall, once lovely windows of the flat had been boarded over by the workmen.  As though it were preparing for a disaster, instead of piecing itself together in the aftermath.  Overlapping timbres created slanted bars of light, and Sherlock could see the world through them-- if he wanted to look.  

He didn’t.

The world would have to wait.  When he opened the door, Sherlock knew, he would have to face a world with people; their concerns, their fears, their  _ speculations _ .  Tedious minds and small lives, and the great, cavernous void that Mycroft had left behind.  

No more big brother dropping in unexpectedly.  No more half-asleep arguments, tangled in Mycroft’s ridiculously soft sheets, as he tried to convince him that Queen and country could wait just a little longer. That they could function without him for one day.

No more soft, ginger curls tickling his skin when he kissed the back of his brother’s neck.  The grapefruit and cedar scent of his cologne would fade, and there was nothing Sherlock could do to stop it.

Death was supposed to be finite.  Sherlock had seen more corpses in his life than most, and he had cradled Mycroft’s remains against his chest; had felt the cold, rigor mortis weight in his arms, and the stillness under his grasping fingers.  But this had been no clean break. 

The veins between them had refused to sever through, leaving bloody tatters that sought to tie them together across the impossible.  It was intellect, the thing they had always valued beyond love or God-- and now he couldn’t erase the memories of his brother and they were driving him mad.  

He wasn’t bleeding out anymore.  But the wound remained, slow dripping and it would scar.

Closing his eyes, Sherlock wasn’t certain how long he had been laying there, listening to the quiet click of the tweezers, and the neat sound of glass shards dropping into the bowl Molly had found in the kitchen.  Each new sliver released with a sting of pain, sharp and red behind his eyelids-- methodical, and strangely soothing.

_ Click.  Tug. Pain.   _

_ Click.  Tug. Pain. _

Molly had chosen to use the light from her cell phone to work by, the bright flashlight glow pointed at the sole of his foot as it rested in her lap.  He was grateful for it, and the way it left the rest of the room shrouded in darkness. Closing his eyes, he focused on the feel of her working, and welcomed the centering burn of it.

“When I was sixteen, I almost lost him.”  Sherlock finally said, and his voice sounded low and ragged to his own ears; the baritone cadence of it shot through and raw.  From the other end of the couch, Molly paused and considered grabbing him some water; but he needed to talk. And if she moved?  He might retreat back into himself again. So she bit her tongue and nodded faintly, a wordless promise that she was listening.

“He was a translator at the time.  Working for the diplomatic core… He.. Had a gift for language.  Said he could see the patterns in them, the shape of them. And how they connected to one another.  I, myself, never could.” His eyes still closed, Sherlock crossed his arms under his matted head, his heavy sigh hitching across his lips.  “Music and language.. But he was ambitious. Wanted to run the bloody world.’

“He was in South America when it happened.  Some local criminals protesting the trade negotiations -- utterly stupid, of course-- and--”  

_ Click.  Tug. Pain. _

He could do this.

“He was hurt.  And the  _ idiot  _ didn’t realize how badly until he collapsed in his office, weeks later and--”  Sherlock’s voice quickened as he held the long scarred memory up to the light, “My parents tried to hide it from me.  Pointless, of course. He.. seemed so small in that bed. All surrounded by machines, and things between us had been…”  He paused a beat, the words punctured with a gallows laugh, “Tense. For years.’

“I was nine when he left for university.” As if that explained everything.  And maybe, Molly thought privately, it did. Looking down at him, sprawled across the couch with one knee drawn up tightly, she could imagine him at nine-- furious and throwing himself against the world.  At sixteen, leaving university for the first train to London because his parents had refused to tell him the truth in a satisfactory way.

In his thirties, trying to wrap his brilliant mind around the fact that change had come.  

That he’d lost the brother he loved, and gained a sister he didn’t.

“I stole the cufflinks from his suitcase when he was packing.  Still had them when I went to university myself. I still have them.”  Somewhere in his room, the listless flick of his hand seemed to indicate.  Even when they would have brought in a pretty penny if he’d pawned them, during the dark days when his life was pulled like metal filings towards a magnet, his gravity defined by the drugs.  “If I had them, I knew he’d be back.’

“He spent weeks in the hospital.  I stayed. Because he needed me, of course-- even though he was too bloody stubborn to admit it.  He would have gone mad, trapped in that bed with only the nurses to keep him company.” With his quiet, contemplatively distant voice, Sherlock looked down at Molly, her face illuminated in hard relief by the light from the phone.  “I was afraid he would die. But I didn’t genuinely believe it would happen.’

“My brother was…”  Sherlock’s voice trailed off, the words refusing to come.  

“Is that when you figured it out?”  With the last tink of glass in the metal bowl, Molly fished the tube of antibacterial ointment from the first aid kit and punctured the seal with the top of the cap.  The last few days had given her time to consider the revelation; to turn it over and over in her mind, waiting to be horrified.

But who had they hurt?  The legality of it-- or lack thereof-- would offer no comfort for his grief.  

The disgust had never come, and the words didn’t feel as strange on her lips as she’d feared.

“I know.  What.. you were.  What he was to you.”  She continued, her dark eyes focused down on her work.  In the glaring cell phone light the ointment looked greasy and slick, and she could feel the tiny muscle twitches as she dabbed it over the cuts.  “I’m not going to tell anyone-- I mean, of course, I wouldn’t. I’d never. But I thought you should know, so you don’t, well.. So you can just talk.  Without having to worry about giving it away?”

“How-?!”  Sherlock half twisted to look back at Molly, the uncomfortable twist making his spine pop.  

“Doesn’t really matter, not.. I’ll tell you later.  Nobody else knows, I promise. Now sit still-” Her fingers tapped his ankle with a light pressure, “I can’t wrap up your feet if you keep squirming.  You don’t have to like it, but it’s going to have to do until we can get them cleaned up properly. I don’t know what you were trodding all over, and I’m not letting you get septicemia on my watch.”

For a moment, Sherlock blinked up at Molly, wide-eyed and his heart in his throat.  “No.” He croaked out, and rested his head back on his arms. The world blurred at the edges as he turned his face into the crook of his elbow, breathing in the chalky plaster dust with a shuddering sigh.  “It’s when I discovered… He’d always been there, you see. Even when I was appalling. He didn’t give up on me.”

Even when the rest of the world had written him off as a waste of life and talent.

And Sherlock had believed them.

Tears muddied his cheeks and dripped onto the filthy couch, pooling on the scarred leather and leaving salty stains.  “Sherlock, oh... You’re coming home with me. I’m not leaving you here alone.” Molly’s voice seemed distant, punctuated by the snip of scissors through gauze, and the soft tear of the tape to hold it in place.  

He wanted to argue; this was his flat, and he was going to stay here.  He had been searching for his brother’s shade, and found nothing. 

 “And if not for me, then for Mycroft.  He’d never forgive me if I let you stay here.”

“He was everything, Molly..”  He murmured as she helped him with his shoes, and lead him to the door.  Usually she took the underground, but today she called for a cab, phone pressed to her ear as she walked the unsteady man down the narrow staircase.

“He always said the.. Seven years before I was born, were the most difficult of his life.  And I don’t know how to do this without him.” 

He would have to learn.  But her arm around him was tight and warm, giving him a place to lean when the world spun sickly around him.  She couldn’t carry him, but she could walk each slow, painful mile with him.

And in his robe, and no socks in his shoes, Sherlock Holmes took his first step back into the world.

  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much love to you, and definitely hop down into the comments so we can chat!


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